


and, oh Lord, I detest all my sins

by pureseasalt



Series: Kinktober 2020 [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Choking, Dirty Talk, F/M, Inappropriate use of a confessional booth, Kinktober, Kinktober 2020, Loss of Virginity, Priest Kink, Unsafe Sex, alexa play take me to church by hozier ft. megan thee stallion & cardi b, explicit mentions of genitalia, inaccurate depictions of priesthood, no beta bc im a fucking Man, priest! ushijima wakatoshi, thigh fucking, thigh riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:14:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27041071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pureseasalt/pseuds/pureseasalt
Summary: You didn’t use to avoid church, a thing that your mother keeps on berating you about. Well, you didn’t use to fantasize about the local priest either.But you can’t tell her that.Especially now that the said priest seems to be catching on to your sinful thoughts.
Relationships: Ushijima Wakatoshi & Reader, Ushijima Wakatoshi/Original Female Character(s), Ushijima Wakatoshi/Reader
Series: Kinktober 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1973596
Comments: 23
Kudos: 186





	and, oh Lord, I detest all my sins

**Author's Note:**

> to my dear friends:
> 
> i'd always known we were destined for hell together, but i think, after writing this, that we're really in it now.

Your mother has it wrong. It's not as if you grew out a pair of horns overnight and, along with it, developed a hatred for God, as she would like to tell you.

"What's wrong with you, girl?" 

The disapproval in her tone cuts you, her labor worn hands stiffly fixing the collar of your lilac dress. That exasperated glare would take a lot of adjusting to, you think, still not used to being the subject of anyone's— much less your mother's, censure.

She sighs. "This isn't you, sweetheart. You used to look forward to church," she says.

You can't help but wring your handkerchief into a tight knot. 

"I told you, mama," you mumble. "My head really hurts and-"

A soft howl leaves you as she pinches your arm. "There you go again with your excuses! Last Sunday it was a stomach bug! Then, a school project! On a _Sunday_! Who are you fooling, silly girl?!"

Well, _those_ had been lies, true; too weak, too shaky when said, that even a blind person would've been able to see through it. But, this one, however, is more genuine than the ones that came before it. Your head does feel like it's splitting into two, and that you're having trouble breathing doesn't help matters either. 

You were about to voice out those concerns, tell your mother that you really, _really_ can't enter the house of God or else you'll puke on His altar, but before you could protest, you find yourself being dragged past the crowd of vendors selling candle sticks; past the opened jaws of the iron gates, and, finally, into the looming cathedral— ancient and dark, its belfry reaching into the heavens. 

The heady smell of incense welcomes you. A choir of nuns sings a chorus for the Messiah as your mother, still clutching your elbow, swims through the sea of people blocking the pews.

The church is packed, filled with old and new faces alike (you squint and see people even from the neighboring town present for today's mass; funny, that), that you're sure you and your mother would be standing for the entire afternoon had her friend not saved seats for the both of you.

Just like your sudden reluctance to attend mass, this was another development in your small town's then unexciting life. For Sundays hadn't always been like _this_. 

Such a show of enthusiasm would've been unheard of a few weeks ago; mass, after all, was just another Thing that happens in the people's usual routine. Though, not for you. 

A few weeks ago, you would've been up before the crack of dawn, preparing breakfast while humming Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah— ready and excited to listen to the homily given by some kind, elderly priest.

But, a few weeks ago, the local priest had _actually_ been kind and elderly and..not at all like _him_. 

"And so the Bride confesses her love."

You stifle a grimace. 

With the voice of a booming clarion, Father Wakatoshi recites, "She tells the king: Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth."

Heat rushes to your face as the need to look away gnaws at you.

"For your love is better than wine, your anointing oils are fragrant," he thunders. 

You hazard a glance around the church and see that he has his audience absorbed. Most would be dozing off, at this point of the mass, or chatting as quietly as they can about where to go next, uncaring for the annoyed "hush" of those beside them. None are doing either now.

He continues, "Your name is oil poured out." You look down, blood rushing to your ears as your heart clamors against your chest. Sweat trickles down your neck, teasing the valley of your breasts, prompting your fingers to pop a button or two, finding the humidity extremely unbearable.

"Therefore virgins love you."

He's a daunting presence, Father Wakatoshi. Towering and big and muscles filling his vestments. You notice, too, that his Adam's apple bobs as he says, "Draw me after you. Let us run." 

Like iron pulled by a magnet, you don't stop yourself from staring at his jaw, tracing the sharp, perfectly cut line and wondering what it would feel like to touch. Wondering what he'd say if you do. Would he find it amusing? Maybe even reward you with a rare smile? Or would he get angry?

You tremble at the thought. Though you wonder if it's because you fear it; fear those unforgiving deep green eyes reprimanding you for being bad; fear those large hands chorded by veins and the punishment they'd mete out. 

Nibbling your lower lip, you pull at the hem of your dress. It's too short, you realize. You swear that it had even reached your knees when you put it on earlier. Now, however, it feels as if it's been cut by an inch, exposing your bare legs as you part them, feeling your underwear tighten, and then sawing them back together, thighs rubbing each other when you think about how you must look right now. 

You perk up, realizing what you'd done, and you search for any sign, any hint that someone, _anyone_ is looking on at you with judgment, tut-tutting at your inappropriate display. Relief washes over you when you see that everyone is still paying attention to Father Wakatoshi.

A short lived relief, it seems.

Because the priest himself isn't looking at anyone. 

Anyone except for you, that is.

"And then," Father Wakatoshi says. He still doesn't take his eyes off of you, pinning you down with them, glaring harshly at all of your sins as he concludes, "And then the King brings the Bride to his chambers."

* * *

So how do you even tell your mother the actual, honest reason for this baffling behavior of yours?

It's not as if you can walk right up to her and say that when it had been your turn to receive the eucharist, the sight of the local priest's lips, forever pressed into a wide frown and made glistening red by the wine, had you opening your mouth instead of receiving it with your palms like you usually do; the vulgar feeling of your spit sticking to the roof of your mouth intensifying the heavy pulsing between your legs. 

And that when he'd placed it on your tongue you thought you'd felt him linger there for a few seconds; his scowl that only made his severe features all the more domineering tempting you to actually close around his fingers. 

And when he finally took them away, you thought you'd felt him brush your lip, down to your chin, just the barest of touch. 

No. Of course, you can't say _that_. You'd be mad to even breathe a word about it. 

Especially about what happens after, when you get home and you run to your room, slamming the door behind you and hurriedly locking it for good measure. 

Because, quite literally, that's the most damning part.

You think about him pressing your shoulders down, down, _down_ until you're kneeling before him, as if in a prayer. And he's much taller than you, much taller than anyone you know, that he has to caress your nape and subtly scratch his nails along your scalp, making you shiver as you look up at him. So you don't blame him, really, when his grip grows all the more vicious to the point of hurting when you finally, _finally_ suck his cock. 

Just the tip first, you imagine, as you slip a hand down beneath your cotton panties. Then, you'd cling to him as he drags you deeper, forcing you to take all of him, forcing you to gag and choke and beg for his mercy with teary eyes. 

There are tears, too, after you come. When the pleasure subsides and the guilt makes its appearance.

This is the last time, you tell yourself. You don't think you can continue like this, either. All these lies and dirty secrets are taking a toll on you that you don't think you've slept easy since his first mass. 

Determined and penitent, you decide to clean your body, the one you'd soiled with numerous fantasies, of him fucking you in his office, on the altar, in the tower in the dead of night, an illicit rendezvous with his hand on your neck—

_Enough._

Putting on a blouse and a skirt, (you don't think much that it's missing a couple of inches above the knee; it's not like they'd notice, you tell yourself), you leave the house with your head held high. And despite the wobble in your walk, causing you to trip and stumble on your way out, you don't think, in all your life, you've been this resolute for clemency.

* * *

Okay perhaps this isn't the best idea.

Perhaps going to a legitimate confessional should be a step further into the process of asking for forgiveness.

Maybe you should've talked about this to your friends first? Or to someone older, someone open-minded and more inclined to view your stupidity a little bit fondly? 

_But_ , you argue, but don't people say that a problem should be addressed at its root? And you are _very_ set on resolving this, after all. 

There's not a soul to be seen, other than the birds flocking and circling high above, that it feels strange to be here after it’s just been thronged earlier. The clicks of your shoes echo against the marble floors as you enter the empty cathedral. 

Thankfully, though, the confessional isn't, as you'd been told. 

"The Father is available for confessions, my child," one of the religious brothers said. 

And it doesn't even occur to you to ask _which_ one.

Your first mistake. You sit inside the large, ornately designed booth not knowing this.

Not yet, at least.

Your second mistake. The priest enters and you don't bother looking. He doesn't open the light inside, you reason, and the latticed partition makes it a challenge to discern who's on the other side besides. 

If you could've just been more vigilant, you could've ran while you still could. 

But you don't. 

You stay unmoving, still hoping that you'd end your folly with a clean conscience.

And so, when you do the sign of the cross and say, "Bless me Father for I have sinned," and when he asks, "When was your last confession?" it is only then that you realize the kind of error you've made. 

Father Wakatoshi's voice rumbles in the small space, shaking the wood works and your entire being. 

You gulp. You close your hands in a tight fist and try to breathe in and out as slowly as you can, but you find that you'd have to get out, run outside _now_ if you wish to live to see the next day.

"Speak, child," he commands. It should sound encouraging. He _is_ a priest! But it is anything but that. Instead, the words register like a ticking bomb, making you scramble for an answer and wipe your sweaty hands against your skirt. 

"L-last- last- month, Father," you squeak.

He presses on, "What is it you wish to confess?"

Oh dear. 

"Um," you start.

Oh _dear_ God. 

"It- it's too, too sinful, to say, I'm afraid," you stammer. At this point you're no longer bothered if you're being as annoying, petulant, and silly as you sound. 

He doesn't speak for a moment. You anticipate his chiding reply, followed by being thrown out and forbidden from confessing in the foreseeable future.

"It's alright. We're all sinners. There's nothing to fear," he says, clipped and frigid. 

"I, I've been having," you say with closed eyes, "having lust- lustful thoughts about someone." 

It's proving more difficult to breathe. With a rattling breath, you hear him huff, hear his clothes shift as he moves. 

"Go on." His voice, usually clear and resounding, is now so gravelly and rough that you can't really understand what he's saying unless you sit closer to the partition.

You cross your legs, feeling the need to quell the pressure between. "I mas- I masturbate to- to the thought of him," you whisper.

"How often?"

_What?_

"What?"

He sighs. "I said, how often?"

Your bra scratches against your nipples as you exhale, driving you to stick out your chest, seeking the brush of fabric against the stiff peaks. Just like that. A little bit more.

"Every time- every time, Father. After I attend your mass," you rush out. 

Your third mistake. One that you only notice after it's been said. After the period of silence. After the drumming of your heart drowns out every other sound. 

"My mass," he repeats, rasping.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit, _shit_.

"I- Father, listen-" Like being doused by a bucket of cold water, you immediately stand and peer into the latticed opening, rummaging for his face, for his reaction to what'd you'd just confessed because that steely tone of his doesn't even care to give _anything_ away. "Please- listen- I didn't mean-"

He growls. "Come _here._ " 

You want to pinch yourself, to wake yourself up from this bad dream, but you find yourself stepping out, hands tense and immobile to do anything else but open the foreboding door in the middle, where Father Wakatoshi sits, awaiting your execution. 

The strong, musky scent inside flips your stomach. His wide shoulders are stretching the button up shirt of his black cassock, expanding and threatening to rip the thing all together as you watch his chest rise and fall. He's- _well_ , he's large; too large, in fact, for the suffocating enclosure of the confessional. His legs, as well, take up what little room is left; the swell of his muscles creasing his slacks. 

And oh, _oh_. Look at him. Are priests even allowed to look like that? Olive hair darkened by the shadows and mussed by sweat, deep green eyes piercing you.

He's leaning his head back, puffing out hot breaths as he exposes his neck. He looks so lewd it feels so wrong to stare. And— and, you still haven't— still _can't_ _—_ bring yourself to even glance at that obvious bulge on his crotch. 

"Close it," he tells you, a guttural sound that compels you to submit. 

You find yourself flooded by darkness. The loss of sight heightens your senses, electrifying your skin like a live wire sparking at the slightest contact. 

You yelp as you feel his hand on your waist, pulling you closer to him so that you're parting your legs, knees hitting the edge of his seat, as he hauls you on a thick, strong thigh. 

His breath tickles your ear, scalding you as he says, " _Sit_." 

You're close, so _close_ , to touching his clothed cock. Your fingers itch at the sight of it. He's _so_ big, just like all of him, that it's almost painful to see it constrained by his cassock. You want so badly to feel it twitch and jerk under your hand, to hear him whisper sweet words to you as you begin to stroke it. 

As if privy to your intentions, he grips your wrists with a low chuckle that has your spine tingling. "No you don't. Not when you've committed such a grave sin." 

His lips hover just below your earlobe, making you whine and wriggle as you straddle his thigh. Legs spread so wide you start to feel the thin material of your panties wedge between your ass and your pussy lips, your swollen clit throbbing against the hardness beneath. 

He moves his lips lower, hovering lightly that you think you'd go insane, dipping to your neck, making you arch your back and press harder on his thigh. 

Just as a silent moan leaves you, Father Wakatoshi thrusts two thick fingers into the wet cavern of your mouth, calloused pads tracing lazy lines on your tongue. Up, down, then out of your mouth and into your lip, spit slowly dripping to your chin. 

"Now, you'll confess," he grunts. "What do you think of, little girl, when you defile yourself?" 

It's impossible to think. Not when it feels so, _so_ good to move your ass on his thigh like that, swirling and dancing sluggish figure eights. And when you gyrate just so, your clit peeks out of your panties, the coarse fabric of his slacks a thrilling contrast to the slick bundle of nerves, the dampness making your panties slippery and almost uncovering your wet pussy. You feel that part of his thigh moisten.

A rough palm meets your ass cheek. You wince out loud. 

"Answer me," Father Wakatoshi tells you. 

"Your..!" you squeal. "Your- ah! Your c-cock! I think about- about sucking your cock," you add, burning in mortification. 

He brings his hand next to your face. You nudge your cheek against his palm, seeking his touch. His eyes hood at the movement as he brings his fingers back to your mouth. 

"Show me." 

You immediately wrap your lips around them, closing your eyes as you relish the feel of _him;_ the salty taste of his fingers and the way he looks at you as if he's going to devour you whole. He doesn't move, letting you bob on his fingers on your own, back and forth, as you rub your pussy on his thigh. You roll your tongue around him, using the tip to lick underneath. Drunk on a feverish thrill, you could not help at the way your front teeth nip his fingers lightly. 

" _Tsk_." His brows furrow. "You haven't done this before."

You shake your head, eyes rolling to the back of your head as you hollow out your cheeks and suck his fingers deeper, his fingertips just a shy away from touching your throat.

Father Wakatoshi pulls you closer, locking your arms behind your back with an arm made of lead, your breasts squeeze against his chest that you can now feel his heart hammering in time with yours. 

He pushes his fingers down, choking you with them until you cough out a spittle. You slobber on his hand and he huffs a sound of disgust.

"Look at you. Untouched by anyone but me." You feel his wicked grin on your ear. "And yet, here you are, on my lap and eager to be fucked." He runs his fingers from your mouth as you grind harder, the heat in your belly building and building, desperate to chase it to its end. 

"Like a bitch in heat," he whispers, bringing his fingers to open the buttons of your top, spit connecting them as they part. "Like a dirty little whore." A wet finger raises your bra, making you sigh as the hem grazes against your nipples.

"Yes! Yes just like _that,_ " you moan. Thrusting your chest to his hand as he gropes one of your tits, a nipple caught between his thumb and forefinger, pinching it, gently at first, until he's twisting and pulling and he's wrapping his mouth around it, licking and sucking on the pebbled bud as you cry for more more _more fuck fuck please._

And when he does it to the other one, you all but jackknife on his lap. You arch and shake violently against him, feeling his lips trail back up, lapping at the valley of your breasts, kissing your shoulder blades, and then nibbling on your neck as he continues teasing your tits with his fingers. 

He brings your chest closer to his mouth, using both of his arms now to keep you in place, lifting you from his thigh. And then, without any warning, he bites down atop your breast. 

"Oh my God!" The pain wracks your body, sedated only by the pleasure. His palm is swift in silencing you. 

"Blasphemy." 

Father Wakatoshi clicks his tongue before he proceeds to assault the skin of your tits, breaking it and drawing out blood. You feel him suck on it, and you have the urge to wail out the ache, wail out the odd prickling sensation that makes you shiver. 

He stops to admire his work, and you flinch as he brings his fingers to prod it. Gooseprickles rise from your arm when he raises his head, when you meet his eyes and see how black they've become, pupils blown wide, the shadows making them seem like a deep well that'd pull you in if you stare for much longer. 

" _Mine_ ," he growls against your lips. "You're mine." 

And then he's kissing you, the force of it taking you aback. The feeling surreal and tightening the knot between your legs, as he invades your mouth with his tongue, forcing you to keep up, despite your lack of experience, moans growing louder as he dips a hand down to your panties, sliding the soaked fabric to the side, making you blush as he parts the damp hair so he can tease your pussy with his fingers. 

"God," you mewl out. "Oh my God, yes, please, Father Wakatoshi, _please_ _—_ "

He slaps your ass, sharp strikes on both cheeks. "Such a filthy mouth," he grumbles. 

You whimper as he manhandles you, positioning your pussy to his crotch, becoming an incoherent mess as he slides his fingers down your slit, your hole squeezing against the large bulge of his cock, hot and hard and so _fucking_ good. He groans, gripping your arms harder, nails digging down as he moves a calloused thumb to circle around your swollen clit. 

"You made a mess," he whispers, the sound of his zippers opening making you buck desperately. 

You whimper. "Please, please fuck me, fuck me, _fuck_ me-"

 _Oh_. 

You moan, breathless and voice hoarse.

Oh and he's so big, his size causing your heart to stutter and skip because how are you even going to fit that inside your—

"Tight little cunt," he grunts, sinking the head of his thick cock into your pussy; just the tip, first. "Mine. Your tight little cunt is _mine_."

You want to sink into him, plunge your slick walls into his big cock and have him fill you up, fuck you until you can't walk. God, you just want it so _so_ much, but he- he's still teasing your entrance, tracing your pussy lips, rubbing your clit with the tip of his cock. 

"Father?"

You freeze in place. 

"Are you there, Father?"

Someone has entered the confessional. You squirm out of his hold; tried to, at least. His arms are heavy iron that keep you anchored to him.

"I'm here, my child," he says, deep voice not showing any hint that he's pushing you down his fat cock, forcing your pussy to take every inch of him, slow and steady. 

He's tearing you apart, you want to scream, but his palm is back to muffle your mouth. You don't hear anything, except for your blood in your ears; don't see anything, except for the tears clouding your sight. 

"...sinned," the man on the other side trails off. Father Wakatoshi speaks, but you really can't care for anything right now. 

Not when it hurts so much. You're fully seated into him, his cock buried deep that you feel the tip of it almost nudging something, causing a pang that has you cringing, until he's touching your nipples again, kissing and licking your neck. 

"I stole money, Father," he said. "From- from my employer. She's a good lady, Father. I want to give it back, but-"

The confession tapers off as he guides your hips, the pain subsiding and dulling down, arousing an intoxicating tremor in your body. You grind down, just as you'd done to his thigh, but the stretch of his girth makes it feel different now. 

It startles you, the pleasure heightening as he brings you closer, _closer_ , to him, your knees taking all of your weight as you feel him knead your clit with his fingers. 

"Good girl," he groans into your ear. "What a good little girl."

He still doesn't give you much time to breathe, quickly replacing it with his mouth on yours. 

The man continues, describing his deeds and begging for God's forgiveness. You don't think of doing the same.

Why would you, anyway?

The kiss isn't rough this time, for it’s no longer a punishment, but a reward given to you for being so obedient and pliant for him. He's taking the time to play with your tongue, to lick your teeth and the cave of your mouth as he keeps massaging your clit. 

He's tilting your head to the side, parting your lips as he brings your ass up, your cum dripping on his cock, before he brings it down. The squelching noise of your wet pussy as you ride him, the lethargic pace of it that's becoming more frenzied by the second— it's all is so obscene and shameful and _wrong_ and dear God, you hope that the man isn't hearing how much of a slut you're being. 

"Father Wakatoshi," he implores with a sob. "What should I do?"

You almost cry out as he breaks the kiss. 

You _almost_ cry out. 

Almost reveal to the world that some local girl is fucking the new priest, but, thankfully, _thankfully_ , his hand, large and brutal, immediately wraps itself around your throat, just like how you'd dreamt, just like how you'd always fucking _wanted._ Constricting your breathing and preventing you from speaking a single word. 

"Say a prayer, my child," Father Wakatoshi says, eyes never leaving you. "Are you familiar with the Act of Contrition?"

The man replies with a sheepish no.

You're so close.

Fuck, you're so _so_ fucking _close._

"Follow after me," he tells the man as you writhe on his lap, his cock thrusting into your pussy as you grind on him, rotating your hips and moving it forwards and then backwards and please, _please_ , you beg with your eyes, shedding pathetic tears, _please can you please let me cum?_

"Oh my God," Father Wakatoshi says. "I am heartily sorry for having offended you."

He groans, biting down on your shoulder as the man repeats the prayer.

"And I detest all my sins because of your just punishment," he continues, labored and almost heaving. "But most of all because they offend you, my God, who are all good and deserving of my love."

You can scarcely breathe. 

The confessional is trapping you and you fear that it can no longer hold the both of you, that it'd explode if you keep going like this, but his cock feels so _good,_ so good you feel like you'd die if he stops, stretching you and hitting that spot inside your gummy walls.

"I firmly resolve, with the help of your grace," he grunts. "To do penance."

You're no longer moving, you realize. You _can't_ move. 

Between his arm locking your hands behind your back and his hand choking your throat, he's fucking you like you're his fist. A thing to be used for his pleasure and made just for his cock.

You moan, but no sound leaves your mouth. Just a little bit more. 

He's rawing you, beating his cock into your pussy until your vision blurs and you're seeing stars and yes, yes, _yes fuck right there. Right fucking there._

You want to screech, tell him that you're cumming, _oh my God, I'm cumming please don't stop, don't stop_ , but as soon as the tell tale signs show themselves: your body quivering, uncontrollable; your walls clenching and convulsing around his cock, cum coating his balls— he lets go of your arms and covers your mouth with his hand, the other one still on your throat.

"Father?" you hear the man ask. "Is everything alright? What should I do next?"

You lie limp against him, as he strokes his cock with his hand, pointing the head to your bare stomach. You feel his body tremor, your eyes heavy and threatening to collapse, as he shoots hot, sticky cum on your navel. 

"So, child," Father Wakatoshi breathes out. "You promise to sin no more."

**Author's Note:**

> always use condom kids!


End file.
